


Couldn't Be the Booze

by perpetualwhim



Category: Trigun
Genre: First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-09-21
Updated: 2003-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-03 21:25:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4115437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perpetualwhim/pseuds/perpetualwhim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm about to turn away, but he puts a hand on my chest.  "Wait," he whispers, and begins to unbutton his jacket.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Couldn't Be the Booze

**Author's Note:**

> This is oldfic, backdated to my best estimate.

Another night on the road, and we're in yet another anonymous, nondescript motel room. The girls have already gone to bed in their own room (despite my insistence that we could save a lot of money by doubling up on rooms, and of course, beds. Meryl always shoots down my best ideas.), and Vash and I are just taking care of a few things before we follow suit.

"Taking care of a few things," on most nights, amounts to staying up for a few hours with a bottle of cheap booze and a couple boxes of donuts, laughing and joking about nothing in particular. Tonight, though, we're oiling our guns in companionable silence. Our room is lacking in chairs tonight, so I sit on the edge of my bed, and he on the small writing desk beside it, with the bottle of oil between us. The only sounds are the muffled clinks of gun parts sliding into place, standing in sharp contrast to our usual drunken antics. In a way, though, I like these nights better, when I can just think quietly in another person's company. Sometimes I wonder how it is that we became such instant friends, with such different philosophies--but when it comes down to it, I think he's good company, and I'd like to think he thinks the same of me. His naivete used to irritate me, but the longer we're on the road like this, the more I start to think that he might just be onto something, and that fascinates me to no end. It's amazing that someone who's been on the run for so long can still look at the world with the eyes of a child.

"What do you think of Meryl?" I look up, a bit startled at Vash's question. He's fiddling with something on his gun, his expression unreadable. I've never been too good at answering vague questions, so I grab my smoldering cigarette from the ashtray and take a long drag while I think.

"She's nice," I reply eventually. "A little bossy, but she's got a good head on her shoulders. Might be fun to see her drunk, if we could ever get more than one drink into her." I grin a little at that image--all-business Meryl, waving her glass in the air and singing some tuneless song, with Millie snoring on her shoulder. "Why do you ask?"

Vash frowns at his gun, then sets it aside. "I think she likes me. I'm really not sure what I think of her, though. She...reminds me of someone I cared about, but...." He leans back against the window frame and gazes out into the night. I can't imagine what he's looking at--sand all looks the same to me.

"Thinking of taking her out sometime?"

"No." 

"Oh." Sometimes he talks like this, after the alcohol wears off a bit and we're both winding down for the night, but he's never mentioned his love life before. There's something sad in his voice, and I wonder if I ought to remind him that my own luck with women seems to lead to me getting slapped more often than not. Still, I set my gun aside and cap the bottle of oil. He sounds like he wants to talk, so I'll listen.

"She is nice," he continues, "and smart, and can take care of herself. I admire her sense of duty, but I know duty is the only reason she follows me." His eyes closed, and his face looks almost peaceful, with his forehead leaning against the glass. "What kind of life is this for her?"

I grind out my spent cigarette in the ashtray, and watch the glowing coals fade to nothing. There's a heaviness in the pit of my stomach when I say, "Like you said, she's devoted. If you asked, she'd probably keep on following, and it's not like she hasn't seen her share of danger."

"I don't think I want her enough to ask that of her." Why does that make me feel better? On a second look, I realize he doesn't look peaceful so much as weary, and I feel instantly guilty for my selfishness. It's stupid of me to even go down that road, I know, but I think some little part of me wishes I could keep Vash the Stampede for myself.

"So don't," I say with a shrug. "Have a little fun--nobody says it has to be forever."

As he shakes his head, the wisps of his bangs skim his eyelids, and I have this sudden urge to push them back. "I can't do that. I don't know why, but I just...." He's at a loss for words again, and I wonder if we should have gotten our usual bottle of cheap booze after all. _He_ certainly looks like he could use it. 

I try to keep my tone light. "If the spark isn't there, it isn't there. There's not much you can do to change it. I wouldn't worry too much about it, Vash."

"Maybe."

"I mean it. Just because it seems like you should feel a certain way for her, that doesn't mean you _will_ feel that way. Maybe there's something about her that annoys you, but you don't realize it. Maybe you're just more interested in someone else. Maybe--" I break off, noticing the very sudden flush that's come to his face. Sometimes you can really read Vash like a book. "That's it, isn't it? So, who is it?"

The change of subject seemed like a good idea--lighten the mood, tease him a little, just get that melancholy look out of his eyes. But now he looks like he's fighting with himself; afraid I'll laugh, maybe, or just not comfortable telling me this much about himself. His hands fidget a little, then he leans back slightly, gripping the edge of the desk behind him. A calm seems to come over him as he looks up at the crumbling plaster ceiling, and his voice takes on a strange secretive quality. "Do you really want to know?"

I think I know what he's going to say, and it thrills and terrifies me at the same time. I feel a connection with him, and I'd be lying if I said I hadn't had a few impure thoughts about him, but the reality of it is a different matter entirely. Fantasy versus reality, theory versus practice; what can there really be between a gunman and an innocent? I swallow hard, hoping the dryness in my throat doesn't make my voice crack. "Yeah." 

"You."

I'm suddenly wishing we had been drinking tonight, so I would have en excuse for being so shaky. His eyes meet mine, searching for confirmation, and I guess they find it, since his distant expression turns into a warm smile. 

Sitting on the edge of the desk, his legs casually open, he looks so relaxed as he lets his words sink in. I stand and close the distance between us with a step, though I'm not sure why--the last thing I need is to get involved, but there's something about that angelic smile on his face that just hits me hard. His hand rises to my cheek, cradling me, and I want nothing more to turn my face into that touch and let his warmth spread over me. But I hold myself still.

"I'm just a man," I tell him, pleading. It's not me you want, Vash. Not someone so low, with hands so stained by blood. It feels wrong, somehow, for me to even be touching him, but his hand is still there on my cheek, burning into me relentlessly.

Except now it's moving, sliding to the back of my head to tangle in my hair. His intense eyes don't waver as he draws me closer; I could try to escape, but I just can't find it in me to move, except along the path his hand is guiding me. 

"I know." His warm breath is soft on my lips; his bangs are tickling my forehead, and I fight the urge to blink until the tickle becomes a burn. I take a slow, controlled breath, forcing my eyes to stay open even as his slide shut. I know what's coming, and I feel like I should be stopping it, but before I can object, his lips press against mine. They're smoother than I expected, but just as firm and hot. I'm struck by the absurd thought that mine must feel like sandpaper to him, and I wonder if it's any different than he expected, and if this feels as right to him as it does to me. Wrapping my arms around him, I pull his body closer to mine. I can feel a slight tremble in his chest when he breathes, but otherwise he's motionless, lips pressed together even as they're pressed against mine.

That won't do. How quickly can I make him squirm?

I part my lips slightly, and he does the same. Suddenly, I'm desperate to taste him; my tongue invades his mouth, seeking and claiming its dark recesses. His breath comes faster, and he makes the faintest of whimpers as my tongue finds his. Then, slowly, timidly, he begins a conquest of his own. 

My desire surges up in me. I want this moment, this feeling to last forever, but I want so much more. I let the one arm drop to his waist and lean forward, lowering him to the desk. It's awkward and uncomfortable, and his hips dig painfully into mine until he opens his legs a little wider, and I find myself pressed tight against his ass. A long, slow thrust has him gasping and writhing beneath me, and the flush in his face leaves me aching for more. But then he opens his eyes, and when they meet mine, I stop.

Suddenly, I'm pushing away, even though his fingers clutch at me. "Wolfwood?" There's something raw and wavering in his voice. I'm afraid I might have hurt him, but there's a bitter taste in my mouth, and I need to get away.

"I can't do this, Vash."

A sad smile crosses his face, and his arms release me. Relief and regret mix, turning into a weight in the pit of my stomach. I'm about to turn away, but he puts a hand on my chest. "Wait," he whispers, and begins to unbutton his jacket. 

I'm mesmerized by the quick movements of his fingers, and when the buttons are undone, he leaves the jacket lying on the desk while he moves on to the tight brown suit beneath. I'm confused; I don't know how to react to this. "Vash?" 

But Vash doesn't say a word--he just slips his hands beneath the fabric and pushes it off down to his waist. Opening his arms as if for an embrace, he exposes a network of puckered scars and metal grafts that cover his entire torso. Moments pass, and I realize that I'm staring. I'm not sure what I want more--to touch him, or to destroy every person who has ever marked him.

His arms still out at his sides, he says, "You look at me like I'm some sort of innocent. I may be idealistic, but I'm not naive. I've already been destroyed in more ways than you can imagine. I've been battered and broken a hundred times over, and these scars only tell half the story. I know you've got secrets and blood on your hands, but I've come to accept that. I want your mark on me, Wolfwood." His gloved hands slide up my arms to rest on my shoulders. "I want you." And his lips find mine again, and he's pulling me down to the desk with him, and dear God, I want him, too.

His scars are fascinating; soft and swollen beneath my exploring fingers. Cool metal and warm skin and his breath coming faster against my neck--I'm drunk on the taste and feel of him, and I grind against him desperately, loving every gasp and whimper that escapes from his lips. The rich scent of red leather fills my nostrils, and I can hear it creak beneath us as we move.

And now he's working his hands beneath my jacket, and as it falls to the floor, I feel chill air against my damp shirt, making me shiver. I shrug the shirt off and pull close to him again, the hard press of metal against my chest distracting, but not unpleasant. We fall into a rhythm that soothes one need and intensifies another, and I tug frantically at his clothes even as he fumbles with my pants. This is everything I wanted, but it's still not enough, and I can't seem to pull his brown suit off over his _god damned_ boots.

Our eyes meet, and seeing our mirrored frustrations, we laugh nervously before breaking apart long enough to disrobe. Vash's body is lean and muscular, laid out before me, and I can't help but touch it, running my fingers up his leg to wrap around his hardness. His mouth opens, his back arches, his wide eyes plead for more.

Yes.

He is unspeakably beautiful, twisting and writhing beneath my touch. My teeth seek him out; his neck, his ears, his clutching fingers--each part of him feels different, but each part is undeniably him. My free hand wanders between the coarse hair on his arm and the smooth hills and valleys of his chest. I want to feel every inch of him.

My hand dips lower, and the bottle of oil soon finds a new use. Shock and hesitation cross his face, but then I kiss him and he relaxes, his body so obedient to my touch, I find myself wondering how long he has wanted this. My tongue claims his mouth once more, mirroring the movement of my fingers, and I feel more than hear his moans, low and rumbling in his throat.

His fingers tangle in my hair, his arms wrap around my waist, and before I realize what's happening, he's rolled me effortlessly on top of him. His twitching length brushes against mine, and he draws in a hissing breath. "Wolfwood, please...."

The desperate plea is all the encouragement I need; as much as I savor the anticipation, I want nothing more than to bury myself inside him. I hook my elbows behind his knees and push into him in one quick stroke, and his silk heat is more incredible than I imagined. I lose myself in that heat, his gasps echoing in my ears along with the rhythmic creaking of leather beneath us. He's grabbing at the edge of the desk, and I'm grabbing at him, trying to pull him closer, or maybe pull myself deeper--I'm not even sure anymore. I wrap my hand around his shaft once more, and I'm rewarded with the single most erotic moan I've ever heard. I'm on top of him, I'm inside him--I don't even know where I am, but I know I want to stay there.

His sweat-slick skin slides against mine, sticky and sweet. The hair on his legs is tickling my back, but I don't care. He's grabbing at the edge of the desk, nails digging into wood, and I'm just trying to hold back for a little longer while the blood rushes to my head, pounding in my ears while burning need consumes me. His back arches, his muscles clamp down on me, and an inarticulate moan escapes my mouth as I watch him come, my hand wrapped tightly around his cock, the feel of his body surrounding mine, his eyes wide with pleasure and his mouth open in a silent scream. I bury my face in his neck and call what might be his name, or an endearment, or just nonsense syllables, as his arms wrap tightly around me and I reach a frenzied pace, losing myself completely in him. The world explodes into a kaleidoscope of light and sensation, and it's everything I wanted. Vash the Stampede is mine.

I collapse into his arms, which are waiting to catch me. Our chests are wet and sticky between us, and my knees are aching, but I can't bring myself to care in this warm glow. "Thank you," he says, kissing the top of my head and ruffling my hair gently.

"Mmmph." I open one eye to see him smiling at me, a real genuine smile, and I'm truly relieved to see it. I smile back, forgetting for a moment everything that's ever happened, or ever will happen, outside of this room. Better not to think of what might come, and just enjoy the contentment of being in his arms. Limp and boneless, I roll into bed, pulling him after me, and I let the feel of his soft breath on my neck lull me into a deep and contented sleep.


End file.
